


Crybaby

by princessofmind



Series: Would You Like Some Chemistry With Your History? [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-07 08:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Sollux over the course of your relationship, it’s that he has no tact.  Literally none.  He sent you a text telling you that your beloved betta fish died literally minutes before one of your biggest presentations of the semester.  Sometimes he does it to be a dick, but in cases like what happened to Napoleon, it’s because it just doesn’t occur to him to think of the timing in relation to what’s he’s saying.  You find a certain amount of it charming, you have to unless you want to go completely out of your skull with irritation, but you’re sitting in a crowded Mexican restaurant with a chip full of salsa halfway to your mouth and he just asked you if you’d be interested in fucking him.  Like he was asking about whether or not you wanted to stop for ice cream on the way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crybaby

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cul-de-sac (InkSkratches)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkSkratches/gifts).



“Wait, what?”

If there’s one thing you’ve learned about Sollux over the course of your relationship, it’s that he has no tact. Literally none. He sent you a text telling you that your beloved betta fish died literally minutes before one of your biggest presentations of the semester. Sometimes he does it to be a dick, but in cases like what happened to Napoleon, it’s because it just doesn’t occur to him to think of the timing in relation to what’s he’s saying. You find a certain amount of it charming, you have to unless you want to go completely out of your skull with irritation, but you’re sitting in a crowded Mexican restaurant with a chip full of salsa halfway to your mouth and he just asked you if you’d be interested in fucking him. Like he was asking about whether or not you wanted to stop for ice cream on the way home.

“I know you heard me,” he says around the straw in his mouth, leaning with his elbows against the table with his chin in his hands instead of picking up his glass like a normal person. “You’re turning all splotchy.”

You eat the chip but don’t really taste it. He looks fucking bored. “I. Well, yeah. I mean, what the fuck, Sol, normal people don’t just drop shit like that in the middle of dinner.”

“Always trying to keep you on your toes,” he says brightly, and you knead at your temples at his toothy grin. “But you didn’t answer the question.”

Okay, true, but you’re still poking at the situation like you can’t figure out if his proposition is serious enough. The two of you have been together for a while, but you’re the first person he’s ever been with, man or woman. Up to now, he’s been the one doing the fucking, and it’s been more than good with just that. You can play both sides, but Sollux didn’t even like boys before he took the US History I class you were TAing, and he was so eager and a fucking quick learner and better in bed than any underclassman virgin had any right to be that it didn’t occur to you to try and rock the boat. If the fancy struck him, there was little doubt in your mind that he’d let you know; you’d just hoped it might be in the privacy of your own home and not during Happy Hour at the hole-in-the-wall restaurant close to the apartment.

“I’m far from opposed to the idea,” you say eventually. “I’m just curious about what brought this on.” A frown creases your features. “Is this because of what I said last week?”

It had been a rough couple of days; the two of you had fought, he’d slept on the couch, and you’d made yourself guilty and miserable until you went out there to apologize and ended up getting draped over the arm of the couch while you got your brains fucked out. You’d both been impatient, pushed it a little too fast, didn’t use quite enough lube, and you’d ached the next morning in a way you hadn’t since high school. He’d called you a pansy, and you’d snarled that he’d never be able to take a dick without crying his eyes out.

He’s grimacing a bit, and you’d mistake the look for displeasure if there wasn’t a flush starting on his neck, barely visible in the dim light of the restaurant. “Kind of? I mean, it’s not like I feel like I have something to prove to you of all people. It just made me think about it, and I’m curious now.”

You twirl the little paper umbrella that came in your margarita. “Is it going to be a thing? Like some huge production where we go home after this and shit’s real awkward and the whole thing is very deliberate and planned out-”

“ _God_ no,” he interrupts, and you’re relieved to see that he looks just as horrified about the notion as you felt. “It was just as suggestion to hold on to and tuck into the back of your mind to be utilized at a future date. I’m not asking to put in a fucking reservation.”

You nod in acknowledgement, licking the salt from the rim of your glass, and try not to linger on the absolute jewel of a future prospect that just got unceremoniously dumped in your lap. It’s easier than you thought it would be, considering you’re dropping him off at the apartment after dinner and going to the library to finish work on your first term paper of the semester, and he’s been sacked out for a good hour by the time you finally amble home; too long to rouse him for some late night hanky panky. After that, life just kind of gets in the way. When you finish your paper, he has a huge coding project to work on and ends up falling asleep in his computer chair most nights.

The day he turns the project in, he skips all the rest of his classes to take a well-deserved four hour nap that he doesn’t seem in any hurry to wake up from when you come home from your own classes. He’s spread-eagle on the bed, his lanky limbs taking up every available inch of the queen sized mattress, snoring softly into your pillow. You much prefer when he snores to when he drools. Toeing off your shoes and dumping your bag just inside the door, you strip off your button down on the way to the bed, leaving you in just the plain white undershirt and your jeans as you slide up the long length of his body to capture his lips. He’s such a bitch when you wake him up from naps, just about the only way you can rouse him and not get kicked in the stomach is to coax him from sleep, tasting his mouth, soft and lingering, slipping your knee between his thighs to press teasingly against his crotch.

He’s always slow to wake up when you do this, his breathing going long and deep, mouth hanging open just a bit more. You settle in closer to him, glad that you went ahead and shed your shirt, because he’s sleeping puppy warm and pressing against you, breath hitching noticeably in his chest when you lick into his mouth, tease the roof of his mouth and the crooked architecture of his teeth with your tongue until he mumbles drowsily and you swallow the sound down. It’s awkward to linger like that for too long, with his tongue just limp in his mouth, so you lavish attention on his pouty bottom lip, worrying the sensitive skin with your teeth and kissing the irritation better.

You can tell that he’s beginning to wake up when his hips start to move, rubbing his half-hard dick against your knee and his fingers catch on the thin material of your undershirt. Clumsily, he seals your lips together, his tongue flicking against yours in a way that’s definitely interested but still unfortunately uncoordinated. Benevolently, you decide to help him along, pushing your thigh more firmly between his legs, and he ruts shamelessly against it, a half groan half sigh slipping from his chapped lips. “Project get wrapped up okay?” you ask, shifting to kiss his neck just under his jaw.

He slips his hands under your shirt, rubbing distractedly up the gentle curve of your stomach to caress open-palmed against your chest. “Yeah,” he rumbles, voice pitched deeper than usual from a combination of lingering drowsiness and lust. “Better get an A. Shit was perfect.”

“I’m sure it was,” you say as sincerely as possible, but not sincerely enough for him, and he tweaks your nipple none too gently in retribution. It doesn’t serve as a very good deterrent, since all it does is make you pant a damp breath against his skin and drag your leg painfully slow between his thighs. Hissing, he scootches up a bit higher until you can press against him as well, a tease of friction against his hip through your clothing.

Kissing him like this is a lazy exercise. He’s so warm and pliant, his lips sliding wetly against yours in a slick brush of skin against skin, his tongue flicking lightly against the part of your lips before he shifts back to just breathe. You guide his movement, your hands on his ass keeping the pace slow, and he doesn’t fight it, just lets you do what you want with him, his arms wrapped around your torso underneath your shirt. He’s already breathing deep, forehead resting against yours, and his eyes are hazy, unfocused, but unwilling to look away when you meet his gaze.

You slip your hands under the back of his sweatpants and his boxers, kneading the soft flesh for a moment before spreading his cheeks, and it makes him jerk against your leg, breath stalling for just a moment. “This okay?” you ask, your fingers slipping closer to his entrance, and although he’s already blushing hard enough to be hot to the touch, he doesn’t shift away. Just swallows thickly, twitches his hips absently, and nods.

You slip away to shed your clothes, and he follows suit, kicking his sweatpants off the edge of the bed at the same time you lean over to place your glasses on the nightstand in exchange for the bottle waiting there. He looks apprehensive, but not nervous; more like someone ready to take on a challenge who isn’t entirely sure of the rules. “How do you want me?” he asks, and your focus is on his erection hanging hot and heavy between his legs as he kneels on the comforter and not on his words.

“Uh.” He smirks and snaps his fingers in front of your face. “Okay, sorry, fuck. Just lay on your back. You can put something under your head, but don’t prop up.”

He obeys, predictably placing your pillow under his head, turning his head and inhaling slowly with his nose against the fabric. Two of the spare pillows go under his hips, putting him at the perfect angle for your fingers and your mouth. Spreading his legs makes his breath stall again, but when you look at him, the spark of lust is still clear in his eyes, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he looks up at you. You stretch out on your stomach, already knowing that the position is going to make your wrist ache something awful, but you want to be able to get at his dick with your mouth while you do this, so it’s a small enough price to pay.

A couple pumps from the bottle slick your fingers, but you don’t penetrate him yet. Just slide your hand over the curve of his ass to rest against his entrance, pressing just enough for him to feel you there, to get used to the idea. The sleep still clinging to his mind leaves him relaxed, though, and he doesn’t even react beyond a soft, pleased hum that grows in volume when you lean down to mouth at the base of his dick. His skin is hot under your lips, and the musky scent of him goes straight to your own erection, makes you tongue the vein running up the underside as you slip your forefinger inside.

The movement is slow and steady, and even in his relaxed, recently woken up state, you’re surprised by how little resistance you’re met with. He clenches around the digit, but the rest of his body remains relaxed, his dick still hard resting against his stomach and under your lips. You mouth up to the head, dragging your tongue across the tip and dipping into the slit before sucking it into your mouth, moving your finger inside him as you do so. He’s panting audibly now, breath catching every time you pull out and push back in, just a ghost of movement, but he still twitches under your lips every time.

You don’t release his dick from the moist confines of your mouth when you pull your finger back enough to drip more lube on it, even though a little gets on the sheets as a result. It slides back in easier this time, and you repeat the process twice more before you’re satisfied with how slick he feels. Only then do you press a second finger into him, and when he jerks up into your mouth, you’re positive that it’s out of discomfort, but just as suddenly as he moved away, he’s sinking back down on the digits, his thighs starting to shake and press together.

“Have you been practicing?” you ask slowly, twisting your fingers to make him cry out, your head the only thing keeping his legs from snapping together.

“I had to make sure I knew what I was getting into,” he gasps out as you alternate sliding in and out of him at a leisurely pace and stretching him. “Didn’t feel this good when I did it myself, _fuck_ , Eridan.”

You want to kiss him quiet, because his voice is making you painfully hard, but from your position all you can do is take him in your mouth again, sucking on the head before dropping down further. Inside him, you curl your fingers, moving with a bit more force until he’s rolling his hips in time with the in and out slide, his toes curling in the sheets. It’s downright insulting, how smoothly he could move in the throes of passion, deliberate and purposefully and languid, not writhing wildly on the sheets like you’re prone to do. His long limbs make him graceless outside the bedroom, trip him up and knock him into things like a puppy that still hasn’t grown into it’s big paws. But here, now, with his dick down your throat and knuckle deep inside him, he’s fluid and composed in a way you’ll never be.

Spreading more lube on your fingers, you push a third one in to join the other two, and he does tense up a little this time. His breathing lags, like he’s afraid that inhaling or exhaling too suddenly will make you hurt him, and you stroke the inside of his thigh with your thumb in a comforting motion as you drop down on his erection until your nose is pressed against his pelvis. He keens when you swallow around him.

You repeat the process of pulling your fingers out far enough to slick them again before pushing back in, over and over again until the slide is effortless and you can stretch him without his face twisting in pain. Despite the discomfort, his dick didn’t soften, and you let him set the pace, pushing forward into your mouth and pressing back against your fingers. You curl them again, pushing up to meet his downward thrust, and a shudder rips through his whole body.

“Ah, _shit_ ,” he curses, and you keep driving your fingers up into him on every downward thrust, letting him fuck your mouth on the upstroke until you can taste him leaking against your tongue. You release his dick with an obscene, wet noise, putting your unoccupied hand on his hips to keep him from moving as you slide your fingers hard up inside him and curling just so, rubbing against that spot inside him that you’d been consistently hitting for a while now and making him groan low and drawn out. “Eridan, fuck, come on, _come on_.”

It’s almost impossible to remove your fingers. Twice you start to pull them out, get so that only the tips of your fingers are still inside, and you can’t help but drive into him again, pressing firm against his prostate until he writhes. He’s so hot like this. Uninhibited, sweaty bangs hanging in his eyes, skin flushed and pupils dilated, looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted on the planet. He twitches his hips as you shift your fingers inside him, curling in a deliberate come-hither gesture, and he practically sobs. He’s already asked as nicely as he can, but you’re not trying to be malicious. You just can’t make yourself pull away from the way he feels around you, how easy it is to make him moan like this, thrash his head side to side on the pillow.

But you’re so hard it hurts, and finally you let your fingers slip from the warm embrace of his body, and he’s trembling with arousal, his dick smearing liquid across his stomach when you pull him up, pushing the pillows under the small of his back so you can scoot forward. The teasing friction of your lube-coated hand almost distracts you, but Sollux is watching so clearly, mouth parted as he tries to catch his breath, gaze lidded as he follows the motion of your stroking hand. “Tell me if it’s too much, kay?”

You spread him with one hand, his needy whimper at the action making you _throb_ , and your other hand steadies your dick as you press against him. He holds his breath, and you want to smack him because that could lead to him passing out in a heartbeat, but you just keep pushing forward until the head pops past the ring of muscle and he gasps for breath. You’re longer than you are wide, and times like these make you thankful for it. You slide forward easily, and fuck, it’s _perfect_.

There’s so much lube smeared inside him and on your dick that your movement is impossibly smooth, and he’s fucking tight in a way that makes your whole body burn. You lean over him, propped up in your elbows, just scant inches from his beautifully expressive face, watching the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, how his eyes flicker back and forth behind his eyelids, how his breath gusts out when you’re seated fully within him.

“Okay?” you ask, your own breathing painfully loud in the otherwise silent room. He shifts, clenches, and you’re muffling curses against his neck because it’s been way too long, you’re not going to last, and never before have you been so grateful for his notorious lack of stamina.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice like gravel in your ear, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell, and you give one uncoordinated jerk that makes him groan. Biting the inside of your cheek, you slide tentatively into him, testing the waters, and are given the permission to dive in when he wraps his legs tight around your waist.

The pace you set is steady, with long, hard thrusts, rubbing against his prostate until he lets out a strangled noise of pleasure and you repeat it all over again. He’s moving in time with you, pushing down like he did on your fingers, and you just want to stretch it out infinitely. The way he’s clutching at you, with his arms and his legs, how hot and slick he is inside, how his panting breaths in your ear are the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, is making it harder and harder to move with any sort of regularity.

He gasps “more”, crying out in gratification when you draw out to the tip and slide heavily back in. You can barely hold yourself up any more, just slouch over his heaving chest, thrusting steadily into him as he rakes his nails down your back. Fuck. _Fuck_. You’re going to come any second now, can’t even hope to hold on when he moans your name and clenches deliberately around you when you’re pressed as far in as you can go.

You reach between your bodies, stroking his leaking erection once, palming the head and smearing the liquid around, and it’s enough to have him coming hard, silently save for his ragged breathing as he coats your hands, as it slips between your fingers. His back arches, his face twists in the most beautiful expression of pleasured agony, and with only two more hard thrusts into him you’re pulling out, grasping your dick and tugging once, none-too-gently, squeezing tight, and you come all over the blankets. You tremble through it, shake and twitch and stroke even when it’s too oversensitive and starts to hurt.

He tugs your hand away, knowing that if left to your own devices you’ll try and milk every iota of pleasure from your orgasm until it’s achingly painful, and you let him direct you because you’re already absolutely boneless on top of him. Rummaging around in the blankets, he locates the bottle of lube and sets it on the nightstand, tucking you under his chin once his task is complete. He’s warm and bony underneath you, and while you’re both sticky and sweaty, it’s basically a guarantee that you’ll fall asleep like this.

You pull the covers up over your bodies, ignoring the stain already on top of them from your orgasm, pulling them up under your chin as you settle in. His fingers tangle in your hair, and his other hand rests comfortably on your hip, his breathing finally starting to even back out.

“Guess what?” he asks, completely nonchalant and unassuming. You grumble a wordless command to continue. “I didn’t cry. You pansy.”

Oh, it is _on_.


End file.
